Plebe Summer by Zillah Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue Chapter One From mid­April to the end of June, Zain was all over the slightest hint of me withdrawing. I still had time to myself during the day, but the moment he got home he would refuse to be shut out. He has many, many tricks for taking apart, chipping through, climbing over, and openly bulldozing the walls I try to build, and I don’t think there was a single one he didn’t use at some point during that period. Eye contact became a much bigger deal than I was comfortable with. It led to a few instances of him making me lay facing him in bed and hold still while he locked gazes with me. He jokingly calls them staring contests, except if I close my eyes or try to look away, he swats me. Not very hard, usually, just enough to pull my focus back to him. Once, I was so exasperated with the whole thing, I actually started to get up. Before I even made it off the mattress, he'd turned me across his lap, collected the hairbrush from the nightstand, and cracked it down a half­dozen or so times. And then quite deftly put me back exactly where I had been and resumed looking into my eyes, his own full of nothing but kindness and determination, while I blinked away more tears than the sting warranted. Every night, he put me over his knee and administered the last insulin shot into my upper buttocks. My reaction to that varied from “NO” to a deep, visceral, grounding sense of security which I can’t fully explain. Whether I put up a fight or not, it ended with me draped face­down, supported by the bed and his warm, solid thigh, my pajama bottoms around my knees. When he was done with the injection, he’d pat my bare cheeks twice before letting me up long enough to pull my pants back into place, and then beckon me to slide under the covers with him and settle down to sleep. That was often when my tongue loosened enough to form the words needed to express my fears. He listened to every one of them, even the most irrational, and good­humoredly talked them through with me, until I was satisfied with whatever solution or reassurance he provided. Between talks, though, he seemed to be doing everything possible to take my mind off our impending separation. We went for long late­afternoon hikes away from the tourist spots. He let me drag him around flea markets, all the while making dire noises about what would happen if I brought home another pink elephant. We marathoned an entire two seasons of White Collar one weekend, and took a camping trip on another. I also wore his dog tags for a lot of the time. It’s difficult for me to explain everything they symbolize. They were a good luck charm when he was deployed. They keep his name close to my heart. They mark me as his in a way nothing else does, since we don’t have engagement rings. They also mean I’m not allowed to have an orgasm without his permission. He delights in making me beg. I delight in it too, if I’m being fully honest. The dog tags could 1 be seen as a kind of collar, I suppose, except I’ve never thought of us as the type of couple to do collars. He took a week of leave before Induction Day, and we spent it straightening out the last details and packing. Most of our belongings were coming with us or being shipped to Santa Cruz for safe­keeping. The house was emptied of almost everything except the furniture when we were done, ready to be locked up until we returned in December. Just walking through it terrified me. Zain must’ve seen that it did, because he moved us to a tent in the backyard until the day before I­Day, when we boarded the plane to the mainland. We stayed that night in a hotel near Annapolis. Our last morning together, I didn't meditate. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say I meditated on Zain. I used the bathroom for my glucose test, and when I came out, he was spread­eagle on his back, taking up nearly all the hotel bed's available space. I fit my body in beside his and watched him sleep awhile. He wouldn't look like himself much longer. Before we left, he'd need to shave the rough stubble that had grown during those last few days, and later his hair, already kept in a Marine's high­and­tight, would be buzzed off entirely during his induction processing. His own clothes would be replaced, from underwear to jackets. Only his running shoes would remain, because they were already broken in, and even they were required to fit strict regulations. His tattoo, his sole distinguishing mark, would be hidden beneath the uniform. It didn't matter, I told myself. I had drawn it for him and could picture it with my eyes closed: An anatomical heart inked in blacks and grays directly above the real, beating muscle inside him, with arteries and veins spreading up toward his collarbone like wings, then fading away. Across the ventricles, hidden among the blood vessels and shadows so you had to know where to look, I'd written semper fidelis. It was more than the Marine Corps motto to Zain. It ​ ​ was both a creed and a vow, his entire way of life summed up in a simple Latin phrase, rising and falling with his every breath. I reached out a hand and slowly traced over the familiar lines of it, until a minute change in one of his inhalations made me look back to his face. His eyes were open a fraction of an inch. “Morning, babe,” he murmured. I started to take my hand away, but he caught it with his own and pressed it down flat on his chest. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper and still rough from sleep. I met his gaze helplessly. Was I only imagining I could feel his steady pulse in my palm? “I'm thinking we need to get a move on, or you're going to be late.” 2 His lips twitched. “Liar. C'mere.” He tugged and rolled simultaneously, so I ended up underneath him. “No, really, Z, it's almost seven. My parents­” “Know exactly where we are, and there's plenty of time.” Trying to budge him is always an exercise in futility. We may be the same height, but he has strength I'll never have, backed up with knowledge and sheer obstinance. I tried anyway, and in three seconds my wrists were pinioned to the scratchy hotel sheets, beside my shoulders. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said, against my neck. I closed my eyes and said the only thing that came close to encompassing it all. “Je t'aime.” ​ “I love you too, habibi,” he said, and then he was kissing me, and it was long past seven ​ ​ o'clock when we finally got out of bed. I called my parents while he got ready to leave. It took him about six minutes, including showering. Being a normal human, I have to spend more time, so I went second in the bathroom, passing my phone to him when we switched places. The rush of water pouring over my head drowned out the words of their conversation, but his tone was upbeat as always. He’d hung up by the time I climbed out, and propped himself in the doorway as I started drying off. “Your dad said something about keeping a beginner’s mind?” he asked. I smiled and quoted, “‘In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.’” He raised his eyebrows and slowly nodded. “Sure, that makes more sense.” “He’s reminding you to keep yourself open to the possibilities and not to think you’re an expert,” I said. “You should read Shunryu Suzuki sometime. You’d like him.” One line of his in particular always reminded me of Zain. The best way to control people is to encourage them ​ to be mischievous. “I’ll add it to my list.” 3 I wrapped the towel around my waist and squeezed toothpaste onto my brush. “My outfit is on the table out there. Could you bring it to me?” He pushed himself off the doorframe, ambled away, and reappeared with a stack of clothes, which he set down on the counter next to me. As he did, a glimmer from his hand caught my eye and made me stop halfway through brushing my teeth. The dog tags were wrapped around his fingers. “It’s up to you, babe,” he said, when I didn’t speak. “I just figured, since I’m not supposed to wear them, you might want to.” I rinsed my mouth and spat toothpaste foam into the sink with my gaze still mostly fixed on that little metal chain. “For the whole summer?” “Mm­hm. Although I think we could relax the rule about calling me ‘sir’ all the time.